Books I am trying to Read

I've got so many books going at the moment that it can be a little overwhelming. I keep looking up different titles on Amazon to see what kind of prices I could get on these used. Some books can't be read before the time comes to return them to the library.

While we were away on vacation: I didn't get a whole lot of reading in, but I did manage to finish *Crime and Punishment,* the first Russian novel I have ever succeeded in reading from beginning to end. I know that I am missing something. The book was good. I was not profoundly moved by it. And yet this book, and Dostoyevky's name has come up in so many other books that I have read and enjoyed. There's something about 18th century Russian culture I cannot connect with I guess. I wonder, what was I expecting. And why is it that the only significant change taking place in Raskolnikov's life occurs in the last two pages of the epilogue? The epilogue of all things. Must keep reading, but at least now I'll have some idea of what Wayne Booth is talking about when he mentions *Crime and Punishment* in his book, *The Rhetoric of Fiction.*

I started reading *The Life You Save May be Your Own: An American Pilgrimage* by Paul Elie while we were at the beach, but only barely. I hope by reading it to gain insight into Southern writer's who also happen to be Catholic. I hope to learn something about Walker Percy from the book as well.

Tonight. I've got three books going, and I'm thinking seriously about a fourth. Tonight I have been reading *Mommy I Have to Go Potty,* because that's where we are with our oldest child for the moment, as well as working on *The Baby Food Bible* because I'm concerned that I must start offering my babies better food choices so that they will grow up prepared to enjoy a variety of wholesome foods. My imagination rarely strays beyond sliced apples and peanut butter and jelly at lunch time, and I know that we are not getting in the vegetables that we need. Also this evening I started reading that Walker Percy book of essays that I mentioned previously, for my book club. So far, as usual, I don't know quite what is going on. The fourth book I've been thinking about is Dr. Weissbulth's *Healthy Sleep Habits, Healthy Child* because we are trying to resume our regular routine now that we've returned home after almost a week away. I have got to get some sleep.

I started Ursula LeGuin's *The Dispossessed* weeks ago, but haven't worked out the time to devote to it, and soon it will have to return to the public library. Two other books sit on my shelf that I had hoped to read, but again I must return them unread, *On the Road* by Jack Kerouac, and *The Glass Bead Game* by Hermann Hesse.

And that concludes my book obsession for this evening.

Suddenly Felt Like Writing Something

I'm very interested in the act of reading. So I'm sitting in my dining room, feeding strained peas and squash to my six month old son, and I start thinking about where the impulse to read starts. I suppose the reader starts by hitting upon an author, or a book, or a subject that they want to experience, or learn something about. Take for instance my interest in Walker Percy.

I've never read one of his books. I started the novel Lancelot, because I'd heard of Percy, because the book was available at the public library, and because the title interested me. I knew a couple of guys who had read Percy, and I respected their choice of reading materials. I knew that he was one of the Catholic writers, along with Graham Greene, who I had already discovered. I looked him up at the public library, where the choices are too often painfully limited, and I think that Lancelot was one of two books they had written by Percy. Because of my interest in Arthurian literature, I already had experience with the fictional Lancelot, who I simultaneously admired and loathed, so I was predisposed to wonder what Percy could mean by choosing such a title. Unfortunately I started the book, but never finished it. It wasn't to my taste, somehow I couldn't really understand the implications of the action, and I gave up on it.

I still really want to read Walker Percy. I want to know why a friend described him as a grouchy old man. I want to know how and why he came to be identified as a Catholic writer. Mostly I want to know, and learn, and see if he has anything to teach me. Whether I am capable of meeting the lesson, I just don't know.

I am about to read a book of essays by Walker Percy in company with some perceptive female friends. Day by day I check the mail to see if the book has yet come. It's much to early to expect it, but I can not help but look. Simultaneously, I have checked out another book from the library that discusses Percy in company with some other Catholic writers who were his contemporaries. I can't satisfactorily start that one yet because I've promised myself I would finish Crime and Punishment before embarking upon too much else. It's hart to read with two young children in the house, along with a recent obsession with an on-line community based game, and a long term cross-stitching project I've been pursuing.

Even as I sit here writing this, I am thinking about another book I almost checked out from the library but didn't, that talks about the Celtic influence on Southern Literature. It's title reminds me of what I learned from Diana Gabaldon's fiction, that Celtic ceremonies play a significant role in the activities of (I can hardly stand to think the words, much less type them) the Ku Klux Klan. I'm also reminded of an almost thrown away comment read recently in a Mark Helprin novel, that the Apalachan poor still bear the genetic markings of a noble highland ancestry. I don't really read Southern Literature. I'm sure that John Grisham doesn't count, though Flannery O'Connor certainly does.

So much to read, such a limited amount of time.